


it has been unpleasant

by mopeytropey (scriptmanip)



Series: a pleasant undoing [3]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-08
Updated: 2018-10-08
Packaged: 2019-07-28 07:42:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16237190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scriptmanip/pseuds/mopeytropey
Summary: Lexa feels her entire body grow still and solid, like ice. If she had the capacity to feel any worse than she already does, she might be swallowed whole by Costia’s words. But she is already too saturated by her guilt, mired in a paralysis of remaining with Costia and missing Clarke so terribly while doing nothing to alleviate the discomfort.





	it has been unpleasant

**Author's Note:**

> I have no excuses.

It’s no longer crisp, it’s properly cold.

Lexa huddles into the corner of the sofa, hands hidden in the sleeves of her bulky, wool sweater, but the chill in the apartment persists. She feels the cold under her clothes, under her skin. She knows the window panes are frosty behind too-thin blinds and the flimsy drapes—inadequate window dressings for warmer temperatures let alone the blistering cold of New England’s coast. Lexa is no stranger to poorly managed buildings and has survived countless northeastern winters in housing with no heat. The apartment she shares with Costia does not fit either of these depictions; and yet, the chill pervades.

“Okay, I’m heading out,” Coastia announces, entering off the kitchen as she wraps a soft, woven scarf around her neck several times. Lexa had given it to her for Christmas two days ago when they exchanged gifts.

She looks up from the paper she’s been pretending to read but does not otherwise respond. So often now she looks at Costia and tries to remember—like reaching for a lost set of keys at the bottom of a too-large bag, she can’t seem to locate the feelings for her she once had.

Costia then asks, “Are you sure you don’t mind bringing my luggage with you tomorrow?”

Lexa blinks as Costia plops onto the opposite end of their small couch, untangling her curls from where they’ve been trapped beneath the scarf. She often stays with friends in Boston when she teaches early in the mornings, and tonight is no different. She’ll sleep in the city, proctor her students’ finals in the morning, and Lexa will meet her at the bus station the following evening for their return to New York.

“Not at all.”

“You don’t have to stay at my parents’, by the way. If you don’t want to. My mom won’t be offended or anything—I just figured it makes sense since we’ll be getting in so late.”

“No, of course I’ll stay,” Lexa says just as quickly, shifting towards Costia even minimally and sitting up straighter against the sofa back. “I want to. Besides, Cheryl will definitely be offended if I don’t stay.”

Costia smiles in concession. “Okay fine, you’re right. I just don’t want you to feel … obligated.”

Lexa swallows, hoping it will abate the lie. “I don’t.”

Her conciliatory smile fades to something more somber, but Costia doesn’t look away. Lexa has to fight against her instincts to reach out and comfort her with soft touches that have always reassured. Costia reaches for her instead—just a brief squeeze of Lexa’s fingers where they are limp against the sofa cushion between them.

“Okay, I’ve got to go before I’m late.” She stands again and moves towards the door, shouldering her work bag but pausing with a hand on the doorknob. Lexa watches as hesitation darkens her features. Costia sighs before turning only slightly to face her again. Her voice shows no sign of uncertainty when she says,  “You should call her, Lexa.”

Lexa feels her entire body grow still and solid, like ice. If she had the capacity to feel any worse than she already does, she might be swallowed whole by Costia’s words. But she is already too saturated by her guilt, mired in a paralysis of remaining with Costia and missing Clarke so terribly while doing nothing to alleviate the discomfort.

“I’ll see you at the station,” Costia then says, her voice softer this time. She pulls open the door to leave.

“Okay,” Lexa answers, just as quietly. She wonders to which of Costia’s prompts she has just agreed.

:::

She’s been insufferable to live with these past few weeks and she knows it. A generous portion of her guilt is based entirely on the strangling melancholy that has recently overtaken her. Admittedly, she has been a moping, despondent, pain the ass. How Costia has continued to offer kind words, cook small meals, and remain as kind and understanding as ever is beyond Lexa’s comprehension. She deserves far less than Costia’s kindness.

And now this: a supportive urging for Lexa to mend whatever is broken between her and Clarke. Of course, what is broken between them is directly linked to Costia, and Lexa wonders just how much she realizes that it is the same problem, split two ways.

In an hour she is dressed for work. A light green sweatshirt over her Trikru tee and well-worn jeans. Dockside is the third stop of her day, but it could just as well be the first and only delivery on her docket for how violently her stomach churns. Anticipation and anxiety have been increasingly excessive and misplaced for weeks—it is no longer Clarke’s face that greets her at the delivery hatch, but Octavia’s. Still, even the scant possibility that she _could_ see Clarke is enough to keep her nerves on a razor’s edge as she pulls into the gravel lot beside the bar.

Lexa climbs out of the cab and walks slowly towards the rear of her truck to unlatch the lock. Her breath puffs frozen into the cold, morning air while she stuffs her hands into the front pockets of her jeans and waits for the hatch to clatter open. A pair of rubber grip work gloves hangs from her back pocket. She is predictably punctual, as always, but minutes pass and her toes begin to numb inside her canvas sneakers. She holds out as long as she can before adjusting the beanie on her head and trudging towards the front door. Clarke’s car isn’t in the parking lot, but Lexa’s stomach turns in on itself all the same as she pulls open the door and enters the darkened bar to a gust of heat.

Octavia bangs her way out of the kitchen a moment later, pastry in one hand and mouth full of food. “Yo.”

“Hi. Can you open up the back for me?” Lexa can feel her fingers and toes thawing even as her spine stays rigid, eyes casting quickly and suspiciously towards the swinging door that leads to Clarke’s office.

“Shit. I forgot Clarke is coming in late today. Sorry, dude,” Octavia apologizes through another bite of her breakfast.

“No worries,” Lexa says. And then, for whatever inexplicable reason, she is compelled to add, “To be fair, she probably wouldn’t have opened it anyway.”

Octavia responds with a half-laugh and head tilt, rounding the bar a moment later with a jangling set of keys. “Clarke is my best friend, you know.”

“I know, I didn’t mean to—”

“Hold up. I wasn’t finished.” Octavia breezes past where Lexa is stood, heading for the rear storage while she speaks. “What I mean is, we’ve been friends since before puberty, and I love her more than most of my blood relatives. But, I beat her in Scrabble this one time after we fought for, like, _two hours_ about the validity of one of her words, and she didn’t speak to me for over a week. She can be a stubborn ass.” Octavia stops walking and turns to face Lexa, crossing her arms and raising an eyebrow. “I probably don’t have to tell you that.”

Lexa huffs her own, small laugh as they pause among the metal shelving of dry storage. “No. I figured that out pretty quickly.”

“Look, I don’t know what happened—I actually don’t want to know what happened. Just know that whatever it is, Clarke isn’t going to be the one to throw up the white flag. Even if she’s completely _miserable_ ,” Octavia now says with an exaggerated eye roll, “she’s way too stubborn to initiate the process of making amends.”

Pulling her hands out of her pockets and crossing her arms, Lexa looks away and sighs. “It definitely wasn’t over a game of Scrabble.”

Octavia swats her arm before insulting her. “No shit, jackass.” Lexa smiles. She has never felt more like she and Octavia might be legitimate friends.    

As she unpacks the cases of beer and wrestles with pony kegs, Lexa tries not to focus on the way Octavia had unsubtly insinuated that Clarke is feeling equally miserable.  

:::

The dark screen of her phone sits like a taunting presence on the kitchen table, still visible in her peripheral from where Lexa double-knots the laces of her running shoes near the sofa. She’d stared at it for a full 45 minutes when she returned home after work, opening the messaging app multiple times without finding the courage to click on Clarke’s name. A phone call is out of the question, she’s decided. A succinct and simple text—she could maybe handle that. She had written far too many drafts than she would readily admit, each composed in varying degrees of desperation or complete, professional detachment.

_I will be gone for a few days, but Indra will be available in my absence to answer any work-related questions. It would be nice to meet up when I return to discuss upcoming products._

_I hope you have a pleasant holiday; perhaps we can speak again when I return from New York._

_Has work been keeping you busy? How have sales been during this season? I hope you’re well._

_Everything is worse without you._

_I’m sorry._

_I miss you._

_I’m—_  

She had hastily deleted them all and tossed her phone in disgust onto the table where it now sits.

In the end, she is too annoyed by her own indecision, opting instead to go for a nighttime run. The longer, the better. Six miles, maybe seven. She needs to unscramble her thoughts, which continue to plague her typically-pragmatic head. A lengthy run will force her to focus, center her inner chaos with a rhythmic heartbeat and measured breaths. She’s dressed in winter running gear—black spandex that’s plated with reflective patches along her calves and triceps. Her hair is tucked up into a neat bun and fingers are peeking out of black, fingerless gloves. Lexa eyes the phone a final time before approaching it with determination. She intends to open her running playlist and drown out the jumbled thoughts in her head when she watches a traitorous thumb move towards her messages and open an ongoing chat with Clarke.

It used to be ongoing, in any case. It’s been weeks. The last exchange between them had been so awkward and stilted, Lexa had stopped making efforts to connect altogether. Clarke was quite clearly in need of creating some distance between them, and Lexa would not push for more than she had already been given. She was undeserving of Clarke’s time and attentions from the start, not to mention her incredibly unsubtle flirtations that Lexa all but welcomed. She’s been granted too big a portion of Clarke’s life already, too significant for what she has been willing to give in return. She’s known it for months, if not from the very beginning. Whatever her reasons for backing away, Lexa knows that Clarke is doing what is right for them both—what Lexa had been unable to do herself.

Still, there is a hollowing in her chest that only worsens the longer she goes without hearing Clarke’s voice.

She sets her jaw and types: _I understand you are taking the space you need right now, and I respect the distance you have set; but I leave for NY tomorrow. It didn’t feel right to not let you know. Merry Christmas, Clarke._

And then, before she can allow herself any further deliberation, she hits send. Her heart pounds a few, anxious beats against her sternum, but then she tucks the phone away into a zipper pocket. She won’t hold out hope for a reply. Instead, she moves towards the front door with renewed purpose. An extended run along the grey, choppy water will bring her clarity, something she has been sorely lacking since an early spring day when she rounded the back of a delivery truck and laid eyes on Clarke Griffin.

She makes it as far as the coffee table before her phone begins to chime. Lexa clumsily removes it from her pocket and freezes. Looking down at Clarke’s name on the screen, her heart beats wildly now. As she swallows roughly she realizes that her mouth has gone dry as well. The incoming call has chimed once or twice before she manages to answer and bring the phone to her ear.

“Clarke.” It is half disbelief, half paralyzing anxiety.

“Hi.” At the sound of Clarke’s simple greeting, Lexa gently leans into the door at her back needing something stable to brace her.

For all that she has longed for this conversation over the passing weeks, Lexa can now think of nothing constructive to say. Her brain races through a hundred different responses, but what resounds is the fact that Clarke’s voice is down the line. She picked up the phone and—for whatever intention—dialed Lexa’s number. Finally.

Lexa’s mouth gapes for another second before she inelegantly says, “You called—”

“I miss you.”

At this, the tension holding Lexa upright collapses. She closes her eyes, tipping her head back against the front door as her body slides smoothly to the floor. She must exhale a great deal of air because her lungs have emptied by the time she draws another breath. Her blood still pumps loudly in her ears, but she hears the catch in Clarke’s breathing as she waits for Lexa’s response.

“I miss you too.”

It feels exceedingly good, this shared sentiment. Lexa opens her eyes to exhale a breath of uncertainty. She wonders if this will merely be the first of the levees to break against all the honest admissions they’ve determined to keep at bay.

Clarke presses on, despite her tone not sounding as confident as it usually does, and Lexa is grateful that they are not forced to linger in such a vulnerable moment. “You leave tomorrow?”

“Yes,” Lexa answers, trying to recall simple information like days of the month and times of day without stuttering her reply. “I’ll be gone until the second of January.”

“Indra is allowing for that much leave? I thought vacations went against company policy.”

Lexa’s timid smile broadens in actual laughter. She runs her fingers down the smooth, spandex material of her black pants and licks her lips. She wonders if it is really this easy to fall back into step with Clarke after so much deafening silence. “You know Indra. She’s filled with Christmas cheer.”

The sound of Clarke’s answering laugh has Lexa clenching her hand into a fist against her kneecap. “Right,” Clarke says in a way that Lexa can tell she’s still smiling. The image she’s conjured is too lovely to be so quickly dismissed, and Clarke is speaking again while Lexa has lost her focus at recalling that smile. “How are you getting home?”

“Plains, trains, and automobiles. Well, trains and busses at least.”

“Taking the train to Boston?” Clarke guesses.

“Yes.” Lexa takes a breath, debating leaving it at that. But she and Clarke no longer have the novelty of avoidance. Despite knowing that it could very well be the end to their conversation, Lexa continues. “I’ll meet Costia at South Station, and we’ll take the bus back into Manhattan.”

Clarke doesn’t lapse into silence, she hardly misses a beat. “Let me take you to the train station then.”

A phone call has already been more than she’d expected, but the prospect of actually seeing Clarke before leaving for New York is enough to make Lexa’s hands sweat. “Clarke, thank you, but I really don’t need a lift.”

“I want to,” Clarke says simply, like the gesture alone hasn’t made Lexa’s stomach swoop sharply.

“I don’t want to inconvenience you.”

“You’re _not._ I offered.”

Lexa tries once more, knowing already that her attempts to dissuade Clarke once she’s set her mind on something are entirely futile. “I can just—”

“You are not _walking_ to the train, Lexa. It’s over a mile from downtown, and it’s December.”

Clarke’s exacerbated tone and Lexa’s answering sigh is an exchange that feels like the comfort of an old sweatshirt. So familiar and so warm, Lexa can feel her temperature rising. She smiles for the third time in as many minutes and resumes smoothing her fingers down the spandex material covering her thigh.

“So, what time should I pick you up?”

“Clarke—”

“Lexa. Stop. You’re not going to win this argument.”

“Yes, I’m sensing that outcome.”  

“I have to get back to work. Just stop being difficult and tell me what time you need to be at the train station.”

“Shit, you’re working. I—”

“It’s Wednesday. Of course I’m working,” Clarke says. “Did you honestly forget my schedule that quickly?”

“No,” Lexa answers quietly. But what she means to say is:

_No, I have thought about you constantly. I have imagined your mornings of getting coffee near the water and your bright smiles for the baristas. I have wondered about you just before the dinner shift when I know you sit at the bar to eat. I think about your rapport with the staff and your generosity with the patrons. I have always thought about you more than I should, and despite our silences I have not forgotten anything._

“I’m sorry. Today has just been …  a long day,” she says instead.

“Tell that to my feet after I wrap up this double-shift in another hour.”

“Right. I’m sorry for keeping you.”

“Oh my god, Lexa,” Clarke laughs. “Stop apologizing and tell me when I’m picking you up tomorrow.”

“My train leaves at 5:30.”

“I’ll get you by five then.”

“Okay.” Lexa swallows. She summons the courage of honesty that she hopes will finally propel her into action. “I’m glad you called.”

“I’m glad you answered,” Clarke’s voice takes on that softer quality again. She exhales in what sounds like resignation; Lexa takes that breath and holds it. “And, this conversation is—I should have done it sooner.”

The words ring heavy in Lexa’s ears long after they have ended the call.

:::

She absolutely does not primp, has never done so a day in her life.

(Maybe she checks her reflection one too many times, running her fingers through her hair repeatedly before pulling a beanie over her curls and adjusting the way they fall one final time. Maybe she also tucks and untucks her shirt a few times before changing into a soft-knit sweater. But, primping for a ride to the train station—absolutely not.)

Her restlessness has her pacing the front windows that overlook the street, and Lexa nearly trips over her own sneakers when Clarke’s car pulls up to the curb. Her phone buzzes a moment later from her back pocket. Lexa retrieves it with shaky fingers and palms that sweat.

Clarke Griffin ( _4:59pm_ ): Hello, your Lyft has arrived.

Clarke Griffin ( _4:59pm_ ): LOOK HOW PUNCTUAL I AM

Lexa bites hard to the corner of her bottom lip. The current of electricity that Clarke has sparked with two, ridiculous texts makes the conversation she’s got to have with Costia inevitable. She looks out at the roof of Clarke’s car, knowing she’s inside and waiting. She imagines Clarke’s own nerves have her drumming the steering wheel. Lexa picks up her duffel and takes a deep breath. There’s no going back at this point. Maybe there never was.

  
  



End file.
